


Ouroboros

by LordessMeep



Category: Haikyuu!!, Psycho-Pass
Genre: (But It Works Out In The End Because I Am Me), Angst, Detectives, I Don't Know Why Iwa/Kuroo Keeps Happening But It Does, Iwaizumi-centric, M/M, Oikawa Being Oikawa Because He Is Oikawa, So many Psycho Pass spoilers, The Psycho Pass AU I needed to Get Out of my System, brief mentions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 03:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordessMeep/pseuds/LordessMeep
Summary: “She’s never where she is,' I said. 'She’s only inside her head.”― Janet Fitch,White OleanderIt ends like this – a note left on his desk, tucked inside a white envelope, trimmed with turquoise. The Dominator rests on top of it and, without even opening it, Hajime knows the exact contents of the letter.





	Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

> This is fully self indulgent and I really have no excuses to make for it's existence. Heavy liberties have been taken with the Psycho-Pass universe and hopefully it's clear that which character is meant to correlate with which. It was actually written in mid-March of this year, so all the Miyas' mangled characterizations are my interpretations alone. 
> 
> Unbetaed, so there may be mistakes abound. Blanket warning for Psycho-Pass S1 and S2 spoilers; so if you haven't watched it, you probably shouldn't be reading this. :P

*

_"I am hopelessly in love with a memory. An echo from another time, another place."_

_Michel Foucault_

*

 

**I.**

 

It ends like this – a note left on his desk, tucked inside a white envelope, trimmed with turquoise. The Dominator rests on top of it and, without even opening it, Hajime knows the exact contents of the letter.

He reads it later though, out on the balcony at the end of the work day, wind buffeting his short locks.  _I have to do this_ , the letter closes and Hajime notes the usage of the first name when signing it, rather than the oft mangled last.

His short temper makes him crumple up the letter, another part wants to throw away this last bit of correspondence entirely, but Hajime stands his ground. He stares down at the paper ball – and of course it had to be handwritten; downright primitive, but also personal, with smudged ink and all, nothing like kanji printed out on paper – and he’s angry.

“I fucking hate you,” he spits, knowing all the while that it’s precisely the opposite. Because he was always going to lose Tooru to his bloody obsessions; he’s known this all his goddamned life, “You can go to hell for all I care.”

 

**II.**

 

(Still, he doesn’t toss the paper like he ought to; he slips it in the tiny compartment of his wrist-com, carrying it around like a weight. Takahiro’s right – he’s always been too fucking sentimental.)

 

 

**III.**

 

“How’d the evaluation go?” Issei asks casually when he catches Hajime on the rooftop cafeteria, taking lunch – canned coffee and his fifth cigarette.

Hajime shrugs in a non-answer. He’s not sure how to tell anyone that his Crime Coefficient had jumped seven points and had stagnated, not showing any signs of falling. A first, because he’s always been known for his stable Psycho-Pass. He’d been told to take a day off, by both the psychiatrist _and_ his team. They’re all working overtime – even Tetsurou – and the bags under Yachi’s eyes speak for themselves.

He wants to snap back, get angry, because none of them have been taking Yuu’s loss well, because Tooru running out on them had been the single worst thing that could’ve happened at a time like this, because Miya Atsumu had vanished into thin air.

“I’m fine.” He admits eventually and Issei ruffles his hair fondly before moving on.

 

 

**IV.**

 

Yachi corners him in a spare conference room, because Hajime hadn’t gone home after all. What was the point anyway? Every corner of it was drenched in Tooru – photographs through the years, the framed award certificate for most cases solved, four years running now, and an X-Files t-shirt Hajime had kept, the last thing Tooru had left at his place, before that thing with Kunimi happened and it’d clouded Tooru’s Psycho-Pass for good.

He watches her pull herself tall, straight-backed and projecting an air of confidence, but she’s still hesitant when her question spills from her lips.

“He was important to you, wasn’t he?” she asks, voice going higher at the tail end of the question, “Oikawa-san?”

Hajime suppresses the flinch that comes on, fully knowing that Yachi was intelligent enough to make the correct assumptions.

“An Enforcer’s loss is very hard for an Inspector to take,” he says, carefully neutral, “And considering that Oikawa was one of the good ones-”

“I meant personally,” Yachi cuts in, wringing her hands, but her voice is steady, “Iwaizumi-san, I’m not blind.”

Of course. _Of course_ , because Hajime has always been absolute shit in hiding his feelings.

“Then, Inspector, if you know everything,” Hajime turns to her, baring his teeth, “Don’t fucking ask me for details. You, of all people, I hadn’t expected to gossip.”

“I am simply worried,” she tells him, earnest as ever, not even wavering at the accusation, and Hajime just waves a hand in her direction, indicating that the conversation was finished, before deciding to go and find Tetsurou in his quarters.

 

 

**V.**

 

Tetsurou leans forward, his hand simultaneously catching Hajime’s chin to turn his face. One glance and Hajime gets exactly what Tetsurou wants, and he holds his cigarette steady as Tetsurou lights his own against it. Hajime watches the ends of both sticks smolder, watches the thin stream of smoke exhaled from Tetsurou’s nose.

“I don’t know why you ever call Tooru reckless,” he remarks casually, settling against the headboard, “Considering the things _you_ pull.”

Hajime cocks an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Hajime, come on, this thing we do?” he snorts, clamping his cigarette at a corner of his mouth. It takes Hajime a couple of beats to realize that Tetsurou’s pulled him onto his lap, one hand mapping out the tendons on his neck. Tetsurou’s smile runs fond, “You know, sleeping with your subordinate is technically illegal.”

“Remember that the next time you decide to pull me into an alley to suck me off,” he grouses, and he’s already given Tetsurou the opening. By the way he grins, sharp and dangerous and devastatingly handsome, Tetsurou knows it too.

“I will, just as soon as _you_ remember whose room you’d barged into twenty minutes ago.”

“You didn’t _have_ to let me in,”

“Oh, and miss watching your face actually relax for a change? No fucking chance.”

Hajime glares at him, but he doesn’t fight it when Tetsurou’s fingers run up and down his side, almost ticklish. He thinks about Tooru all of a sudden – even though he isn’t supposed to – about how he’d purposely dig his fingers into the sensitive spots to tease Hajime, happily laughing about how cute ‘Iwa-chan’ looks when he laughs. Tetsurou’s half done with his cigarette when he puts it out on the ashtray, and his face holds an expression that was almost… _sad_.

“Hey, none of that mopey bullshit here,” he says, plucking the cigarette from Hajime’s lips and grinding it into the ashtray. He pulls Hajime forward, lips ghosting over Hajime’s own when he speaks. “Want me to stop?”

Hajime closes his eyes and thinks about how many times Tooru _hasn’t_ touched him with intention, how many times he’s introduced Hajime as his _‘best friend and, oh, also my boss’_ and how he’s never wanted Hajime the way Hajime has wanted him.

“Make me forget.” He tells Tetsurou and Tetsurou, unexpectedly, doesn’t tease back; he simply leans forward and catches Hajime’s mouth with his own. Hajime screws his eyes shut and kisses back, all while thinking that Tooru would probably taste like sweets and not dark, bitter nicotine.

 

 

**VI.**

 

( _Two days down, five to go_ , Hajime later thinks as he’s out on his balcony at 2:00 am.

He absently fingers his wrist-com, considers sliding out the note to scrutinize it further, but there are no other answers to be had – Hajime already knows that. He knows Tooru like the back of his hand, after all.

“Fucking bastard,” he growls, and he’s not sure if he’s referring to Miya or Tooru.)

 

 

**VII.**

Yachi’s professional chops come into being at exactly the wrong time – which is to say it’s exactly the correct time. The way she goes cold and methodical and dissects the entire situation, right down to every possibility, it’s so reminiscent of Tooru, Hajime is slightly stunned. Then again, Tooru _had_ mentored her one way or another, so it was only inevitable.

Tetsurou raises a casual eyebrow at the request to call her if Tooru uses more force than he ought to.

“Sure thing,” he salutes, glancing at Hajime briefly and shrugging his shoulders. There’s clearly something going on with her, but neither he nor Tetsurou are willing to comment. She had perhaps taken Tooru’s desertion the hardest, second only to Hajime, but even so, it was terrifying to see her maintain an air of professionalism, despite everything.

“Do I have your cooperation, Iwaizumi-san?” she asks before they depart, eyes unusually intense. She’s not wrong, Hajime thinks, because for all he’d threatened to shoot Tooru and be done with it, he’d never actually done it. Physically hit him, yes, but sparring is very different from loaded weapons – he knows that much.

“I’ll do what I have to,” Hajime tells her finally, before turning around and walking away.

It’s the most he can promise right now.

 

 

**VIII.**

 

Tetsurou smiles, of all things.

Hajime scrabbles, panicking, because he knows the first aid, knows that he needs to stem the bleeding, but his hand is broken, _useless_ , and that’s not even counting the fact that the damage from the dynamite is too much.

Two sets of footsteps, one running away from them, one running towards them, sounds of gunfire – the old kind, with the barrel and real bullets and a kickback – and Hajime can only look up when one of footsteps come to a stop. Tooru glances between Hajime and Tetsurou, his face contorting in fierce empathy – Tetsurou and he had always got on well.

“Tetsu-chan,” Tooru breathes and he doesn’t do anything more; he just gives Hajime that _look_ , eyes fierce and brimming with promise – _I’ll get him, don’t you worry_ – before running off, before Hajime can tell him to fucking _stop_. Tetsurou’s wheezes draw his attention back and Hajime only has the capacity to pose a question.

“Why the fuck did you _do_ that?” he growls, “You let him go. You _fucking_ let him go, because-”

“Hajime,” Tetsurou interjects, his voice low and hoarse, tinged with pain, “It’s not your time yet. And, well, it’s my job to protect you.”

“Fuck you,” Hajime replies and he’s close to tears. Unusually candid, he admits, “I’m not ready to lose you yet,”

Tetsurou chuckles lightly, lifting his uninjured hand to cup Hajime’s cheek. “You know I died the day Kenma did. Everything else was just… an expansion pack.”

Hajime stares at his face and he remembers his story, remembers him telling Hajime about his own childhood friend and the accident and his hue being muddied beyond repair, remembers it being the first time they’d fallen in bed together – just two people stewing in the pain of their stupid first loves, two people who’d never been brave enough to grow past it.

“You know, Hajime,” he says, barely above a whisper, “If it weren’t for Tooru or Kenma… I’ve always thought that it could’ve been you.”

“Stop _talking_ ,” Hajime tells him, angry, and he does nothing to fix his suddenly wet eyes. He doesn’t tell Tetsurou that he’s always thought the same; doesn’t _want_ to admit it to himself, even though Tetsurou’s always been _there_.

“Don’t blame yourself.” Tetsurou whispers.

“Tetsurou,” Hajime warns.

“I’m happy, you know? Relieved too,”

“Shut _up_ ,”

“This job, you all, were the only things that kept me sane.”

“For fuck’s sake,”

“It was worth living, okay?” he’s earnest and his hand slips, falls by his side again, too weak to be supported. Hajime doesn’t care that he’s crying, doesn’t care that he can’t make words anymore. Tetsurou’s smiles just a touch, “It was worth it, even without Kenma.”

“Tetsurou,” Hajime’s breath hitches around a sob, “ _Please_ ,”

“Get him for me, Hajime.” Tetsurou says, before stilling completely, his breath stoppering and a faint smile on his lips.

Hajime screws his eyes shut, and he knows intimately what it physically feels like for his Crime Coefficient to climb dangerously, knows the anger and helplessness that comes from it.

He knows that Tooru will ensure that Miya Atsumu would die a dog’s death.

He’d never wanted that before, but he does now.

To Tetsurou, he says this –

“Don’t make me make promises I can’t keep, you bastard.”

 

 

**IX.**

 

Here’s how it really ends – Yachi, collapsed in the middle of a field of Hyper Oats, scratched and banged up, but mostly uninjured. Miya Atsumu’s body is found just nearby, a single bullet lodged in his skull, weapon missing along with the suspected perpetrator.

What Hajime doesn’t tell anybody, is that Tooru had come back after doing the deed, back to where Hajime had been sitting over Tetsurou’s body, the air reeking of death and edged with the faintest traces of gunpowder. He doesn’t tell anybody about the way Tooru had knelt and embraced Hajime from behind, about the way he’d held him delicately – _preciously_ – and about the last two things Tooru had whispered in his ear before disappearing for good – _It’s finished_ and _I have to go, Hajime_.

So many things Hajime had wanted to say to this man, but he hadn’t breathed any of them.

Instead, they report the conclusion to Chief Washijou – rather, Yachi does – and Hajime gets himself checked out with the therapist’s office, learning in the process that his usually clear turquoise blue hue had darkened to a muddled teal.

“103,” the therapist, Akaashi, taps his fingers on the arm of his chair, contemplative, “You know, normally, you’d be off the force by now, Iwaizumi-san.”

Hajime blinks at him. “You mean I’m not?”

“Well, considering how quickly your Psycho-Pass recovers and the fact that you’re a borderline case at this point…” Akaashi informs him evenly, “ _And_ , well, your recent contributions, of course,”

“Of course,” Hajime mutters under his breath, but Akaashi only smiles mildly.

“I do believe you can recover, Iwaizumi-san.” He says, “So, I recommend a week off. Relax yourself.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” Hajime shoots back, cocking a skeptical eyebrow.

“Why don’t we try it first, hm?”

Hajime can’t really argue against that, so he simply nods and complies.

 

 

**X.**

 

The nightmares are normal – this much Hajime knows, but it doesn’t make things any easier.

On the third day, his hue returns to normal, his numbers drop to the mid-80s, and he goes to visit Tetsurou’s resting place – a small locker containing his ashes, in a graveyard right off his old high school. He’s less surprised to find that instead of a montage of Tetsurou’s stupidly handsome face, the memorial hologram is just pictures of cats.

“Who the fuck thought it was a good idea for Enforcers to make their own memorials?” Hajime says out loud and he half wishes that Tetsurou can still hear him. He covers his face with one hand, not sure if he wants to laugh or cry, “I never did say thank you, did I?”

The hologram flips to a picture of a tabby on its back, paws in the air, and Hajime starts laughing so hard, he nearly cries.

The nightmares don’t go away completely, but at least they become bearable enough.

 

 

**XI.**

 

Returning to his old position is a relief to say the least, even if things are very different.

Things like how Yuu’s, Tetsurou’s and Tooru’s desks have been cleared out and in their places are the newbie Enforcers. Hajime likes Kindaichi, though his nervous manner doesn’t explain his Crime Coefficient. Konoha is savvy and smart, frequently boasting about being the ‘Jack of All Trades’ and that really ends up explaining why he gets caught up in things like these.

Perhaps the most professional of them all is Daishou, smooth and sweet talking to the point of being downright poisonous. He’s competent and sticks to Yachi like glue, openly admiring of her obvious prowess.

“You’re keeping an eye on him?” Hajime asks Kiyoko one day, when they’re both grabbing lunch in the cafeteria. Kiyoko gives him that look, watches him carefully for a couple of long moments, before flipping her hair over one shoulder.

“Of course.” She answers, and Hajime hums, relieved, before digging into his agedashi tofu.

 

 

**XII.**

 

(Other things are different too – things like the wrappers of milk bread in the communal trash can and the faint scent of vanilla around Yachi, as well as the smattering of bread crumbs on her navy blue blazer.

She’d hero-worshipped Tooru, Hajime had known that much, but he wondered when it slipped into infatuation. Not that he can blame her, really, because Hajime remembers Tooru blooming in middle school, remembers him growing taller, bulking up on lean muscle because of his obsession with strenuous martial arts, remembers girls falling all over him because of that charming smile. Remembers the fact hitting him like a truck and thinking that it wasn’t entirely normal to be attracted to your best friend.

He feels irrationally angry for a moment, but that’s really more jealousy than anything else. Because, well, Tooru’s always been strictly heterosexual and it’s only with Miya that Hajime had wondered – the strong obsession raised questions, after all.

He points it out to Yachi anyway, because he’s always been too hard on her, even though he likes her.

“I didn’t know you liked sweets, Inspector,” he says, relishing the way she jumps and quickly brushes herself off.

“It’s not what you think,” she replies quickly.

“I’m pretty sure you can’t read my mind,” he tells her, tone coming out more snappish than he intends for it to.

“You have to know that you haven’t been particularly subtle, Iwaizumi-san.” She says and Hajime wants to call it insubordination, even though it really isn’t. He looks away and is incredibly glad that there’s no one in the room save for the two of them. Yachi’s earnestness is both endearing and annoying, “I would never presume to share the kind of bond the two of you do. You could’ve stopped him from shooting Miya, you know.”

Hajime laughs. “No one can stop Oikawa Tooru from doing something he’s set his mind to.”

“You have,” Yachi tells him, her voice brooking no argument, and Hajime doesn’t know what to say to that. It was true that Tooru made exceptions for him time and again, but Hajime never read into it more than he had to. Being best friends for all their lives meant something… but not everything.

“I couldn’t stop him from leaving.” He says finally and Yachi falls quiet. There’s nothing to counter that, after all.

“I couldn’t either.” Yachi tells him after a long pause and softly touches the back of his hand before walking away.

It’s only after she’s left the room that Hajime says it out loud to the empty chamber.

“You have a better chance than I ever did.”)

 

 

**XIII.**

 

He’s sitting at his workstation, perusing a file, and he knows that the floor is entirely empty, given that it’s well past midnight. He’d probably fallen asleep, for Hajime jolts suddenly, at full alert, and he has the oddest experience – like something prodding the base of his neck with one thumb.

It comes to him abruptly – Tooru sitting on his worktable, expertly spinning a pen between his fingers, and saying _I see him sometimes, Iwa-chan. Like he’s… haunting me –_ and Hajime gets to his feet, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

He thinks about Tooru again, thinks about how frequently he used to poke Hajime’s nape, intent on distracting him if he was giving his full attention to something that was not Tooru. Hajime collapses against the back of his chair, covering his face with his hands.

“You don’t get to haunt me, you bastard.” His voice shakes, breaks, and he hates Tooru for everything he’s done.

 

 

 **XIV**.

(Except, except, _fuck_ , he really doesn’t. He never has, which is perhaps the most terrifying thing.

Later, he’s contemplating over a tumbler of whisky and a pack of smokes, and he’s known since he was fifteen that Tooru’s more than a best friend, more than simple family. He’s a part of Hajime – has been for the longest time – and he’s ignored this fact to keep himself sane, is still trying to ignore it _now_.

Hell, it’s why he’s in MWPSB in the first place – Tooru was the one who’d showed exceptional talent in the field, the one who was almost stupidly good at diving deep into the abyss of a Latent Criminal’s mind, and it was _Hajime’s_ job to bring him back. Of course he’d failed, but that hadn’t stopped Tooru from doing what he was born to.

Something about the way Tooru looked sometimes – bathed in the blue glow of the holograms as he dropped himself headfirst into an investigation – it’s like he was otherworldly, downright untouchable. Hajime had learned to be content with the small things, things like the way Tooru would turn to him, his eyes piercing into him from all the way across the room, and Hajime would just _know_. That much he’d always known was his, because no one could comprehend the enigma that was Oikawa Tooru as well as he could.

“I hate you so fucking much.” Hajime slurs the words at the walls of his empty room.

And, even drunk out of his mind, Hajime recognizes his own lies.)

 

 

**XV.**

 

“Are you angry with me?”

Hajime looks up from his cup of coffee only to find the older Ukai watching him carefully, almost as if waiting for something.

Hajime sets his cup down on the table between them and surveys the space absently. It’s cozy, paperbacks and hardcovers dominate the room, and there’s a distinct scent of coffee beans permeating the air. He can feel the weight of Ukai’s gaze like it’s a tangible thing, can almost _hear_ his mind whirring as he analyzes Hajime’s profile.

Truth is, Hajime is angry, just a little bit. But, well, Tooru and he had gotten along too well and Tooru had been the protégé Ukai wasn’t even looking for. There’s nothing Hajime can do about that, nothing he can say in return that doesn’t make him sound bitter and angry, so he simply shrugs.

“Am I supposed to be?”

Ukai looks at him for a moment longer, eyes him up and down, and then takes a sip from his mug.

“You _are_ angry with me.” He says, a sense of finality in his tone.

“You harbored him,” Hajime replies flatly, “You gave him your motorbike. You very conveniently had the key to Oikawa-san’s safe house too.”

“I was doing an old schoolmate a favor, you hear?” Ukai says and Hajime remembers that Tooru’s grandfather and Ukai had been friends, “You know exactly how I feel about the Sibyl System, Iwaizumi.”

“ _You_ know exactly how I feel about it too.” Hajime returns then turns his head away, and he has the privilege of seeing Ukai’s eyes widen the slightest bit before looking away. No one needed a reminder to when Tooru had been tagged as a latent criminal and promptly sent into rehab. No one needed to know that Hajime had begged and begged Ukai to take Tooru in, despite knowing that Tooru would never accept being caged.

Ukai watches him – Hajime can feel it – before clearing his throat. “And you still expected me to sit back and do nothing?”

Now that, Hajime can’t answer. Ukai continues.

“Iwaizumi,” he starts and Hajime regards him out of the corner of one eye, “The law we’re currently under is intrinsically flawed. You realize that, correct?” Without waiting for Hajime to nod, he continues, “Tooru-kun did what he had to. I was in no position to refuse.”

Hajime wrinkles his nose. Hypocrisy had never been Ukai’s thing, after all.

There’s a click of a lighter. Hajime turns instinctively, only to catch Ukai lighting up. Ukai raises an eyebrow when their gazes meet, simultaneously lifting one corner of his mouth sardonically. He abruptly sobers in the next moment, taking a contemplative drag from his cigarette.

“Do you understand me?” he asks and Hajime hesitates only for a second before nodding.

“I am still angry with you,” he sees it fit to reply, prompting laughter from Ukai.

“You won’t be for long,” he tells Hajime, “You always seem to forget that I _do_ know you.”

And Hajime can’t even dispute that, because he has fond memories of attending Ukai’s volleyball classes with Tooru, of Ukai scrubbing Hajime’s head in praise every time he nailed a spike.

“Unfortunately,” Hajime interjects, despite himself. Ukai chuckles lightly.

“You had the makings of a professional player, kid,” he says.

Hajime shrugs. “I was above average, at most.”

“You were recommended by Sibyl to compete professionally,” Ukai points out, angling the smoldering tip of his cigarette in Hajime’s direction, “Or did you forget who received those reports first?”

“I have never been interested-”

“I _know_ ,” Ukai says, and then, softer, more knowing, “I know.”

Unbidden, the image comes to him – Tooru teaching elementary school students how to set a ball. Dressed in the teal blue of their high school, he remembers Tooru being unexpectedly patient, remembers him dismissing the class, remembers him starting his warmups on a punching bag as he waited on Hajime, never once realizing that Hajime had been there the whole time.

That, there, not for the first time, Hajime had realized that Tooru would’ve never been content with something as tame as volleyball. He was born to live on the knife’s edge, exactly like his father and grandfather before him. That very thought terrified Hajime so much, because Tooru’s grandfather had been killed in action, because his father had put his life in danger one too many times and Hajime always thought that it wouldn’t be too long for Tooru.

“You think I don’t know why you’re in the MWPSB right now?” Ukai continues, “I knew it the moment you told me that you wanted to catch up with Tooru-kun.”

“What-”

“Kid, you’re not exactly discreet, alright?” Ukai says before tapping his cigarette against the ashtray to dislodge the building up ash, “I’m just- I’m sorry. I always knew that Tooru-kun would pull something like this. Chip off the old block and what not.”

“Could’ve given me a warning at least,”

“I dunno, you were doing a real nice job of being his knight and all.”

“Excuse me-”

“Iwaizumi,” Ukai’s voice is so tired, Hajime immediately clamps his mouth shut, waiting. Ukai takes another lingering drag and exhales. “I’m not going to apologize for what I did. But, I need you to believe in Tooru-kun. He always came back to you, after all. That’s got to mean something good, right?”

Hajime stares at him, notices the way Ukai looks under the harsh white lights – too old and too exhausted, his usual façade slipping. The too close past seems so much farther away, Hajime thinks, decades off instead of mere years.

He drains his cup of coffee and gets up off the couch.

“I’m not sure if it meant anything at all, Ukai-san,” he says, before giving Ukai a short nod and leaving, not caring to hear his response.

There’s nothing more to be said about that, after all.

 

 

**XVI.**

 

How Hajime meets Miya Osamu is entirely accidental.

He’s drinking in the same bar he and Tetsurou used to frequent after certain outings, before he’s roped into absent chit-chat with the bartender and a fellow patron, sitting just a mere stool down. It takes him about five minutes of muted, intentionally bland conversation to realize that the man next to him looks and sounds awfully familiar.

Osamu is Miya Atsumu, but with deliberate errors – the color of his hair is subdued, an inconspicuous mouse brown, unlike Miya’s standout blond, and it’s even parted in the opposite side. Where Miya’s face would be stuck in permanent smug satisfaction, Osamu’s mouth curves down naturally, and his eyes are half-lidded, like he’s too tired to hold them open.

“Relative?” Hajime asks finally when they touch on the topic, some three and a half Kamikazes later. Osamu half turns in Hajime’s direction, watching him, before downing his shot in one go.

“Twin brother, actually,” he replies, lackadaisical and not a trace of mourning in his tone.

When Hajime doesn’t respond with more than a contemplative hum, Osamu turns back to him fully, dangling his fourth shot in the air momentarily, before throwing his head back and slamming back the alcohol. Hajime signals for another and the bartender’s shrug is the only acknowledgment he gets.

“You’re not surprised,” Osamu notes, setting the shot glass down on the bar top before absently toying with it.

“Do you want me to be?”

Osamu turns his head to one side, contemplative. “It might be nice, you know.”

“Really?”

“Meh,” he shrugs, “Not really. I’m not like Atsumu. _He_ lived for dramatics.”

Because Hajime has no filter when tipsy, the question slips out before he can contain it. “You know, you don’t sound torn up at all. Bad blood?”

The softest laugh escapes Osamu’s lips and Hajime hears echoes of Atsumu in it. It sends shudders up his spine and suddenly reminds him exactly where he is and who he’s dealing with.

“No,” Osamu answers, thoroughly amused, “Call it acceptance. I always knew he’d end up with a hole in his head one way or another; execution-style even.”

Something about the way Osamu says the last sentence pulls back Hajime into sobriety, and a voice in the back of his head reminds him that no one outside of the MWPSB had known exactly how Atsumu had died. He’s suddenly more alert, a _lot_ more wary, and possibilities begin running through his head. Possibilities like Miya Atsumu being back for revenge, because this was the future and humans were more or less invulnerable.

Except… except Hajime had personally overseen the autopsy, personally matched the DNA material on file, and Atsumu really _was_ dead.

The bartender sets down two more shots in front of them and Osamu turns away to face the bar again, setting the empty shot glass in his hand to a side.

“You’re telling me he deserved it?” Hajime asks, ignoring the drink in front of him entirely and slipping one hand to rest against his holster for reassurance.

Osamu doesn’t react, except to blink for a few long seconds. “Well, I don’t know about that… but there have got to be consequences for too much curiosity, hm? Atsumu could never quite shut up and stay put. Always broke out of cribs as a toddler too. He’s never done well with directions, to be honest.” He sighs and takes a short sip from the glass, “He took the Sibyl placement exam three different times just to screw with the system.”

“Huh,” Hajime says, pressing the shot glass to his lips and miming taking a drink.

Osamu regards him out of the corner of his eye. “You seem unnerved, Iwaizumi-san,” he remarks, utterly casual.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Hajime returns, equally as calm, despite the fact that the adrenalin in his blood is starting its upward spike. There’s something to be said about trained professionals, after all.

Osamu motions in the direction of Hajime’s Dominator with one hand, despite the fact that the holster is sitting cleanly out of the man’s line of sight. “Might as well point that thing at me and get it over with,” he says.

 _What the fuck are you playing at_ , Hajime thinks, because he can’t seem to get a proper read on Miya Osamu at all. Still, he slowly draws out his Dominator, careful not to make any sudden movements. Osamu watches him with the mildest interest, not flinching when Hajime points the gun at him proper.

The readout comes to him almost immediately, “ _Crime Coefficient is 47. Not a target for enforcement action._ _Trigger will be locked._ ”

“That doesn’t mean _anything_ ,” Hajime blurts out, and that’s when Osamu lunges at him – movements that would normally be agile and lightning quick, dulled by the imbibed alcohol. Hajime is slow to react too and Osamu has the upper hand, gained by a couple of seconds. One deft maneuver later, he has Hajime pinned against the bar, one arm curved behind him as Osamu presses an elbow into the middle of Hajime’s back.

“How about now?” Osamu says and that’s when Hajime’s muddled brain registers that his Dominator wielding arm is free, purposely so.

“What the fuck?” Hajime wheezes, because he honestly doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Check my Psycho-Pass now,” Osamu tells him, and Hajime obliges dumbly, twisting his wrist to point at Osamu.

“ _Crime Coefficient is 55. Not a target for enforcement action. Trigger will be locked._ ”

Hajime’s arm goes limp and it takes him long moments to realize that Osamu’s let him go and returned to his seat. The bartender has purposely made himself scarce and the other patrons are pointedly not looking at them. Hajime brushes himself off and fixes his tie before sitting down in front of his drink again.

“See, not both of us have the _gift_ ,” Osamu says after a couple of minutes silence, “Psycho-Pass isn’t tied in with DNA after all.”

“Huh,” Hajime answers. He takes a proper sip from his shot glass, “You sure about that?”

There’s a prickle of annoyance in Osamu’s tone when he replies, “What else to you call it when one twin is called in for counselling while the other isn’t, even when _both_ of them were on the scene _at the same time_?”

“I see,” Hajime is non-committal, and he looks out of the corner of his eye at Osamu, “Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

Osamu blinks for a moment, catching his bottom lip between his teeth before letting go. “Let’s just say, I have my reasons.” he says.

“ _Right_ ,” Hajime scoffs, then signals the bartender for two glasses of water. The man sets down the glasses promptly, the ice clinking against the sides as he does so, and Hajime rubs his thumb to wipe the condensing moisture away. He’s about to pick up the glass when Osamu speaks.

“What if I told you I know where Oikawa Tooru is?”

 

 

**XVII.**

 

A private investigator is what Osamu calls himself – an expert in getting the information from the underground channels. He’s definitely not Criminally Asymptomatic like his twin, Hajime learns over the next few weeks, but his Psycho-Pass is still astonishingly quick to recover.

(“Practice,” he says, mouth curving up at one corner, hopelessly endearing.

“We should hire more people like you.” Hajime replies, earning a soft chuckle.)

What he asks for Hajime in return is a consolidated file on Miya Atsumu’s suspected exploits, connections and even the classified report of what happened at the Uka-no-Mitama control facility.

(“You’re telling me you don’t know anything about that?” Hajime raises an eyebrow at the request, but Osamu takes a sip from his tea, calm as ever.

“There’s only so much you can get from the back channels, Iwaizumi-san,” He says, “Can’t beat a proper official report though.”)

Even though Hajime recognizes that he’s breaking more than a few protocols and the fact that Osamu could be outright lying for all he cared, Osamu still supplies him with snippets of information on Tooru’s possible whereabouts, and, Hajime thinks, the man would have to be a damned good actor to make frustration sound so fucking natural.

Still, Hajime gets back to work, but he can’t concentrate on the latest case – Yachi’s harping on the so-called Phantom don’t help at all. Kiyoko assures him that Daishou had not made any questionable moves on her yet, which is really all that Hajime needs.

He even goes home on time, can even bear to sit in a room full of memories now. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that Osamu has a proper record of his first meeting with Tooru – footage from a surveillance camera with the proper time stamps and everything. Osamu insists that it was purely business and Hajime realizes he must be both awfully naïve and incredibly desperate to latch onto any information on Tooru.

(“He still wants to get out of the country, by the way,” Osamu tells him over the phone at 3:00 am one morning, “Just thought you should know.”

“He’s free to do whatever he wants,” Hajime says and Osamu makes a noise over the line, a cross between a cough and a snort.

“ _Right_ ,”

“I’m not-” Hajime starts, but Osamu cuts the call before he can say too much.)

And, thing is, Hajime _does_ want Tooru to do as he wishes – always has – but a tiny, selfish part of him wants just one thing before he can let go of him, once and for all. Somehow, the defined end makes things easier, makes it possible for Hajime to tamp down on months of anger, a lifetime of concealed bitterness, and properly live again.

For the first time in a long time, Hajime can actually bring himself to smile.

 

 

**XVIII.**

 

“It’s done.” Osamu says, sliding over a phone with a series of pictures for Hajime to flip through. Hajime does, surprised when the usual sense of dread doesn’t hit him.

“Thanks for your hard work,” Hajime claps the man’s back, ordering two tumblers of whisky. Osamu gives him a look – one cocked eyebrow, sardonically amused – before downing the whisky in one shot, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You know where to send the files, Iwaizumi-san,” he says, proffering one hand to shake, “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Hajime replies, gripping Osamu’s hand tightly for a brief moment before letting go, “Are you ever going to tell me why you want those files?”

Osamu tilts his head the slightest bit to the side, casually observing Hajime for a few long seconds, before lifting one hand and rubbing the knuckles of it against the crown of Hajime’s head, almost affectionate.

“Who knows,” he shrugs, turning away, “ _The heart has its reasons that reason does not know. [1]_” Half-turning to look back at Hajime, Osamu smiles fondly, “I couldn’t stand him some times, outright hated him too. But, well, he was still my brother, you know?”

With that, Osamu walks away, blending into the darkness, exactly as elusive and hard to understand as ever. Hajime looks back at his whisky, both relieved and oddly lonely.

He takes a drink, wondering if endings were always this clean.

 

 

**XIX.**

 

When Hajime returns to his apartment next Friday at four a.m. after his shift, he’s too tired to notice the extra pair of loafers at the genkan or the fact that the hologram on the ceiling has been changed back to how it was before – the Milky Way spiral slowly rotating, stars twinkling. He sets his briefcase on the work desk, tosses his jacket and coat on it in turns. As he walks towards his bed, he tugs at the knot of his tie, loosening it, that’s when he’s suddenly hit and forced back.

It takes him a couple of seconds to realize that he’s been pushed into the wall next to the desk, that long, elegant fingers have twisted into the front of his shirt, and, before he can say anything at all, a mouth is pressed insistently against his own.

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru whispers, something ragged and desperate, before tilting Hajime’s face up the slightest bit and diving back again.

Hajime’s mental faculties come to a screeching halt.

Instinct takes over – Hajime digs his fingers into Tooru’s shoulders, presses back into the kiss just enough – and his mind jump starts just like that, confused as he tracks through the possibilities. Every scenario he’s run through before, every last one of them, dissipates into ether; everything he’s wanted to say to Tooru, he forgets it all – all of the anger, the bitterness, the hurt.

He’s half-certain he’s dreamt it up, because Tooru had _never_ given any indication that he’d wanted anything more. But, but then there’s the details that Hajime knows would never come from anything but experience – the feel of the cooling night on the coat Tooru still hadn’t taken off, the stubble scratching against his face, the faintest trace of vanilla in the air, the way Tooru _tastes_ , sweeter than most people and downright intoxicating – and Hajime exhales a ragged breath when Tooru breaks away for air.

“Tooru,” Hajime pants, but that’s all he gets out before Tooru kisses him again, this time a ghost of a thing. Hajime swallows down a groan, “ _Why?_ ”

“Osamu-chan told me,” Tooru breathes against his lips and Hajime can feel his lashes fluttering against his face, “It was _you_ , wasn’t it?”

“What-”

“You had Osamu-chan remove all my records from the Sibyl System,” He says and this is when it makes sense, why Osamu had said something about an _extra service_ in the last message they’d exchanged, “It was you.”

“Then, why-”

“I couldn’t just… _leave_ like that.”

Hajime swallows and he doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s just as well that he doesn’t get a chance to say anything, because Tooru seals their mouths together again, one hand cupping Hajime’s jaw delicately. The pressure softens and eases off, before Tooru leans into him again, harder, whispers of _Iwa-chan_ , leaving his lips, like he’s assuring Hajime’s existence.

“I thought about it, you know,” he says, but he can’t quite detach himself from Hajime, scattering kisses onto every bit of skin he can reach, “I should’ve told you so many things, before.”

“Like what?” Hajime prompts, uncaring of the fact that he sounds too breathy, too loud in the calm of the room.

Tooru presses his forehead into Hajime’s, lining up their faces, and Hajime’s eyes are screwed shut, but he can feel Tooru’s gaze boring into his face, can feel the sheer force of it against the back of his eyelids.

“You are my rock,” Tooru murmurs, unbearably soft, both hands coming up to curve against Hajime’s jaw, “You are why I can wake up in the morning. You’ve always had my back, even when I thought there was no one. I can go anywhere in the world, but I’d always come back to you.”

Hajime’s fingers curve into the outer layer of Tooru’s coat, holding on tighter as Tooru continues, and he can’t feel even an echo of anything _but_ sheer relief, a sensation very similar to falling. He shudders, tries to mouth the words – _I hate you so fucking much_ – to the real thing, but he can’t.

“I should’ve told you that I was always jealous of Tetsu-chan,” Tooru continues, the slightest trace of guilt underscoring his words, “I should’ve told you that I _hated_ that he knew something about you that I didn’t,” and here, he leans down to bite into Hajime’s lip for emphasis, drawing it into his mouth and then letting go with a pop, “Should’ve told you that I-”

“You’re such a fucking bastard,” Hajime’s breath hitches and he feels tears track down his face as he cries in earnest, cries for years upon _years_ of feelings he’s bottled up and kept close to his chest, the years he’s spent telling himself that Tooru’s never wanted _this_ , the years he’s spent content with whatever little Tooru _could_ give him.

He cries for the last few months he’s spent, learning how to let go.

“Iwa-chan?” Tooru calls, a hint of panic in his voice as he draws back, and Hajime half wants him to suffer too, except… well, Hajime’s never been nearly as petty.

“I waited,” Hajime hiccups, covering his face with his hands, feeling more like he was seventeen and awkward than twenty-seven, “I’ve been waiting since I was fucking fourteen, alright?”

Tooru leans forward, tucking his head into the nape of Hajime’s neck, and his fingers find purchase in the belt loops of Hajime’s trousers. He sighs, turns his head so that his lips brush against Hajime’s skin.

“I know,” he says, and Hajime suddenly feels the urge to punch him in the face… but that’s before Tooru finishes the sentence. He whispers the words into the column of Hajime’s neck, “I was too.”

“ _Years_ , Shittykawa,” Hajime stresses, “Years I spent being in love with you, even though you’re the worst scum on the planet.”

Tooru chuckles, watery, “I _know_ ,”

“I followed you every fucking where, for my peace of mind.”

“I know.”

Hajime presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, voice small, “I was going to let you go.”

Tooru’s fingers tighten on the belt loops, “I won’t let _you_ go, Iwa-chan. You know that,”

“That’s because you’re selfish as fuck.”

“But how could I want anyone else?” Tooru says, matter of fact, and before Hajime can respond to that, Tooru carefully detaches Hajime’s hands from his face, wiping away the wetness before he kisses Hajime again, slow and careful. By the time he’s slipped a tongue in to trace out the inside of Hajime’s mouth, the back of his teeth, Hajime’s fingers are tangled in Tooru’s hair, his knees feel weak and he’s already gone, gone, _gone_.

 

 

**XX.**

 

It starts like this – late afternoon, sunlight pouring into the room through the gaps in the blinds, a smile pressed into the corner of his mouth as Hajime wakes up in increments. There’s a hand carding through his hair, going up and then back down to trace the back of his neck, count out the knobs of his spine, before settling on his lower back, like it belongs.

“Hey,” Tooru exhales, and Hajime’s world coalesces around him, unbearably real.

“’Morning,” Hajime replies, sleepy and content, and he smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

**I.**

 

(But that’s not how it really starts, not at all.

Tooru suddenly rises from the dining table and crosses over to Hajime’s side, turning the chair to a side and clamping his hands on the back of it, towering over Hajime and effectively pinning him in place.

“I’m leaving the country,” he says in a low whisper, eyes trained on Hajime’s face, “There’s a boat that leaves from Tokyo _Kou_ in a few hours.”

“I know.” Hajime replies and Tooru’s eyes widen the slightest bit at the admission. He opens his mouth and Hajime knows what’s about to come next. He knows what he wants to say too – because it’s too dangerous for any citizen under the Sibyl System to leave without the requisite permits.

Instead of saying anything, Tooru strides over to the other room and, a moment later, he comes back with his phone, a determined edge in his posture. He all but shoves it in Hajime’s face and _then_ Hajime gets what Osamu had been talking about when he said _extra service_.

“All you need to do is press ‘OK’.” Tooru says and Hajime can only stare up at him, suddenly glad that he’s still sitting down.

“You’re telling me that it will-”

Tooru bites down on his bottom lip, eyes wide and earnest as he nods.

“How the fuck did he even…” Hajime looks down at the phone again, the message flashing on it – _Are you sure you want to delete all records of ‘Iwaizumi Hajime’#14041?_

“He said he knew the right people,” Tooru replies and Hajime can _feel_ him watching him, “Come with me?”

Seven seconds – that’s how long it takes for Hajime to internally apologize to his friends at the MWPSB, to Issei, to Takahiro, to Ukai, to his and Tooru’s families. Because he could never live with himself if he let Tooru run off to somewhere he could never reach.

He presses the button, tosses the phone on to the dining table, and Tooru’s already in his lap, hands in his hair and lips pressed to the corner of his mouth, and he’s both laughing and crying – Hajime can’t tell which is which.

“Yes?” he asks, breathless, pulling away for air and Hajime can only laugh.

“Yes.” He replies, “Is there any other choice?”

Tooru’s amused huff is more watery than anything else and he kisses Hajime, slow and inexorable, unsaid confessions in every touch.

Hajime wouldn’t have it any other way.)

 

* * *

 

 

**???**

 

“You must think we haven’t noticed your actions, Osamu-san,”

“Is there anything you wish to do to them, Sibyl System?”

“We punish insurgence; surely you know that.”

“Please, like you can touch me. _Or_ them. You have no idea where they are.”

“…”

“Even if you did, they’re long gone. Two missing mice in a country of millions are hardly a problem, hmm?”

“We have no problem disposing of those who are unnecessary-”

“You know _exactly_ how necessary I am. Atsumu was smart, but he wasn’t me.”

“…very well. We’ll let it slide this time. There won’t be a next time, Osamu-san.”

“…”

“…”

“…we’ll see about that.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> Miscellaneous Info:
> 
> [1] The quote is from Blaise Pascal's _Pensées_ [ return to text ]  
>  [2] Ouroboros is often taken to symbolize introspection and the concept of [eternal return](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eternal_return), amongst other things.
> 
> Well, there you go. I swear I had more thoughts on Osamu's role in the story and society at large, but had nowhere to put them. It's unrelated to the main story and I want to say I'd expand on that in a side story, but I probably won't. OTL
> 
> Hopefully you got a kick out of shameless self-indulgence at work. Thank you so much for reading! (￣▽￣)


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